


Like Weed and Whiskey

by FeralCreed



Category: The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012), The Perks of Being a Wallflower - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Patrick's with a lot of people and he drinks, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Relationship, Slight dubcon if you squint, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, allusions to underage sex, bradtrick, for Elli, you got me shipping these nerds so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: Patrick remembers Brad, remembers too much, and decides that the best way to remember him is to not remember at all.





	Like Weed and Whiskey

Patrick had wanted to forget once. Kisses stolen in the dark, around people that might have betrayed them. Touches given freely, but only when they were alone and hidden. At the time, the experiences had been far from unpleasant. He distinctly remembered begging for more almost every single second. Even clearer had been his memories of being touched in ways forbidden to all others, of skin on skin, of sweat, of shaking limbs and open mouths. Gasps and moans giving way to whispered promises.

 

He remembered being in love.

 

And he remembered wanting to forget what love felt like.

 

Funnily enough, he got the idea from the very guy he was trying to get over. From remembering that his breath had always smelled like weed and whiskey, that his hands were shaking and his eyes were slow to focus. That he'd always been too ashamed of what they did in the dark to bring it into the light. How he'd insisted on it being kept a secret and said it was for their own safety. And when those memories started to overwhelm the others, when he thought about the cadence of that voice and heard shouted slurs rather than whispered worship, Patrick had made his choice.

 

Before, he'd always hated this. Hated the way the world slowed down or sped up or both whenever he took something. The only good part was that getting high made everything feel better, physically as well as emotionally. Smoking a blunt made his problems disappear, and sure, it was in an artificial haze but it was better than nothing. And it beat drinking something that would leave him with a hangover. Getting high usually just made him hungry.

 

Sam hated it, he knew she did. But there was only so much that he could take. And it was hard to forget and he wanted the memories sometimes, so he just found an easy, if expensive, way to accomplish that. He got a part time job, he asked the right kids the right questions, and he could make the pain go away whenever he wanted. Whenever Sam threatened to rat him out to their parents, he just reminded her of the weeks he'd spent crying, growing paler and thinner until his friends had demanded to know what was wrong.

 

He'd told them everything, even though they'd already known everything. And he was pretty sure that they'd understood. That they'd decided to back off and let him grieve as long as he didn't actually hurt himself somehow. So he'd stayed home more, and he'd laughed less, and he'd only gone to parties when there was smoke in his throat. He'd let guys kiss him without even asking their names, let them shove his hand down their pants, let them kiss his mouth open. And he hadn't really cared too much. What was there left to care about?

 

“You can't keep doing this to yourself, Patrick!” Sam yelled at him. She'd found him with another nameless guy, upstairs at the house of someone he also didn't know the name of, and then kicked out the stranger to lecture him. “Just... just tell me that you remember one thing from last night. _One_ thing. Because you keep doing this to yourself, and I don't know if you have any idea what you're doing to the rest of us. We love you, Patrick, and you keep hurting yourself, and that keeps hurting us.”

 

“I don't care any more, Sam. Maybe you should stop caring about me too. He's not coming back. Not after what happened. And I don't want him to.” Patrick had brushed past her, buttoning his jeans with his shirt flung over his shoulder. They hadn't spoken the rest of the day.

 

But she'd dragged him to another party that weekend and hadn't complained when he smoked in her car again. That had been progress. And he'd drank and danced and had grinned at the first boy to smile at him. Dark hair, deep eyes, tan skin, and Patrick pushed away the sense of familiarity that came with it. He kissed him, right in the middle of the dance floor, and had crooked his finger to get the boy to follow him upstairs.

 

They'd kissed more, and Patrick had sat down on the bed and pulled the boy down after him. He'd closed his eyes as they got each other off, not wanting to look at him any more, not wanting to see a familiar expression in familiar eyes and think of someone else. And he'd fallen asleep afterwards, not for the first time. But it was the first time he'd stayed close to the guy he was in bed with, the first time he'd let someone wrap their arms around him and fall asleep there.

 

Of course, he woke up with a headache from the booze. He hadn't been drinking too much, since he'd already been high and hadn't needed to, but the alcohol had definitely been there. He hadn't even recognised the boy that had taken him to bed. Didn't even know that he was still there until he'd rolled over and met warm skin.

 

For a second, his eyes widened. And then he broke down crying. The boy in his bed shushed him and pushed his hair back, mouthing gentle words of assurance into his skin. He waited for Patrick to cry himself out and then he made a promise. A promise to never leave him, to always love him. And he believed him.

 

Patrick kissed Brad, and Brad kissed Patrick, and the world was all right for a little while.

 


End file.
